Best Supporting Role (21 page)

“That’s OK. I understand,” I said. “It’s my fault.”

“Would it help if I threw in a set of men’s antique urinal bottles?”

I said that I wasn’t sure that it would. She slipped a pair into the top pan anyway.

I paid on my card. Hugh picked up the bedpans and the urinal bottles and we headed to the car. Behind us, the auction was still in full swing.

“And we’re done at forty-five pounds. Sold to the gent on my right—three reproduction fauteuils.”

“Shit, Hugh. Did you hear that? They just went for forty-five pounds.”

We got into the car. Hugh sat in the passenger seat with the bedpans and urinals piled up on his lap. There was no room in the boot because it was packed with empty lingerie boxes that needed to be put in the recycling.

“This is all my fault,” he said. “I’ll refund you the sixty quid.”

“What? Don’t be daft. How on earth is this your fault?”

“I suggested we come to the auction.”

“Yes, and I agreed. Plus it was me who misheard the lot number. If it’s anybody’s fault, it’s mine. There is no way I’m taking any money from you. Now please, let’s just forget it.”

“OK, if you say so,” he said, but I could tell he wasn’t happy.

“You look really daft with all those bedpans on your lap . . . daft but sexy.”

That made him laugh. “I suppose you could always put them in the garden and use them as planters.”

“Maybe.”

“Or you could use them as giant outside ashtrays. Or maybe you could string them with guitar wire and we could start a band. We could call it the Urinators.”

“Or the Jingle Smells.”

“I don’t believe you just said that,” he said.

In the end we were laughing so hard that I had to pull over. Of course one thing led to another, but since it was broad daylight and we had to be at the school by five, we made no attempt to venture beyond first base.

We made it to the school with ten minutes to spare.

“Come for dinner,” I said, turning off the engine. “I made lasagna and there’s way too much. And the kids really enjoy your company. In fact the other night Ella told me she really likes you.”

“Really? Well, in that case I’d love to come.”

I left Hugh and the bedpans in the car and went to wait for the kids in the playground.

“What ho, Sarah!”

Imogen.

“Hi Imogen. I haven’t seen you in ages.”

She said she’d taken a part-time job in a friend’s bookshop. Apparently she’d been desperate for something to keep her occupied. Clearly her roles as PTA chair and troop rallier in chief weren’t enough. “Woman just came in and asked me if Anne Frank wrote a sequel. It’s so hard sometimes not to lose one’s patience with the general public. . . . So, Sarah, all tickety-boo your end?”

“Yep, my end’s pretty good.”

“Excellent. And Greg Myers . . . I’m assuming he’s confirmed?”

OK, this was it. The time had come. I couldn’t lie to the poor woman any longer. “Actually, Imogen, I need to have a word with you about Greg.”

“Oh, God, he’s not demanding traveling expenses, is he?”

“No, no. Nothing like that. It’s just that . . . Well, you see the thing is . . .”

“Sarah! Imogen!”

Crap. Tara and Charlotte. They were both dressed from head to toe in black.

“Goodness,” Imogen said. “You chaps look like you’ve been to a funeral.”

“We have,” Tara said. “My father-in-law died. The booze finally got him.”

“And you were so brave,” Charlotte cooed, “keeping a stiff upper lip and not crying.”

“Darling, there was no way I was going to cry. Have you any idea what I pay for mascara?”

“Your poor mother-in-law couldn’t stop weeping. I have to say, she looked dreadful.”

“Yes, but she was no oil painting to start with. I always think that plain people are lucky in many ways. Ugliness lasts so much longer than beauty. Wouldn’t you agree, Imogen?”

I found myself thinking how dreadful it was that we lived in a world where it was socially unacceptable—not to say illegal—to slap women like Tara.

But Imogen hadn’t been listening. She was too busy reading a text.

“Good Lord, they’re releasing Mummy from Grantanamo Bay
while they refurbish. She’s coming to stay for a whole month. I love Mummy to bits, but the old dear is completely batty. . . .”

“Darling, just book her in at the Ritz,” Tara said. “Let them take care of her. It’s what Margaret Thatcher’s family did, so they’re clearly used to looking after old trouts.”

Imogen said she wasn’t sure she and her husband were quite up to the five hundred quid a night it cost to stay at the Ritz. Tara said she was sure Imogen would think of something.

“So,” Tara said, turning to me. “How is your little bra shop coming along?”

“Very well, thank you. We open on Monday.”

“You’re opening a bra shop?” Imogen said. “I had no idea. Well, good for you. The country needs more female entrepreneurs. Let me be the first to wish you the best. I’d come along for a fitting, but it isn’t really worth it since I don’t possess much more than a couple of fried eggs.”

Tara grimaced and turned back to me. “So, Greg Myers all signed up for the summer fair?”

Whereas I’d been prepared to tell Imogen the truth, there was no way I was about to admit my failure to Tara and Charlotte, who would take such delight in tormenting and ridiculing me.

“Absolutely,” I heard myself say.

“We’re so looking forward, aren’t we, Charlotte?”

“Oh, definitely.”

By now the children were coming out of school. Tara and Charlotte took their leave and went in search of their offspring, who—naturally—had also been chosen to sing for the old people. I could see Ella and some friends. I could also hear them. They were belting out “Hello, Dolly!”

“So,” Imogen said, “you said there was something about Greg Myers that you needed to discuss.”

“No, it’s fine. It was just to firm up timings on the day, but it can wait.”

“Good, good.”

The kids clambered into the car and demanded to know what the weird things were on Hugh’s lap.

“Victorian bedpans,” he said.

“What are bedpans?”

I turned to Hugh. “Maybe I should take this,” I said. “OK . . . sometimes if you’re ill in hospital and can’t get out of bed, you have to poo and wee into a bedpan.”

“Aaargh. Gross. Stink.”

When she’d got over being grossed out, Ella burst into, “I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa My Hair.”

“Those songs are stupid,” Dan said. “I wish I hadn’t been chosen.”

“Aw, don’t say that. You got chosen because you have a nice singing voice.”

“Yes, but why can’t the boys put on a football match for the old people?”

“Because most of them would probably prefer a sing-along.”

Dan grunted. Ella kicked off with “Edelweiss.”

“Ella, shuddup.”

“You shuddup.”

“No, you shuddup.”

I started yelling, which only made things worse.

“I suggest you both calm down,” Hugh said. “Otherwise, I’m not going to show you my surprise.”

“What surprise?” Dan said.

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise. Now, just sit quietly and wait until we get home.”

There wasn’t another word from either of them.

•   •   •

W
hen we got home, I put the lasagna in the oven and started on the salad. Hugh asked the children to come and sit at the kitchen table so that he could show them his surprise.

“OK, here you go,” he said, handing them each a paper wallet. “I printed off the photographs of your
murial
. Each of you has a set to keep.”

“Wow. Cool. Thanks.”

“You know, the
murial
really was very good,” Hugh said.

The kids sat examining the photographs.

“My shark was the best.”

“My octopus was better.”

The only thing they agreed on was that they would both take the prints to school for show-and-tell.

“So, Hugh,” Dan said eventually. “What board games do you like? We’ve got Monopoly, checkers, Operation, Scrabble.”

“I have to admit that I’m rather partial to a game of Scrabble,” Hugh said.

Dan didn’t need any more encouragement. He disappeared and came back with the Junior Scrabble box.

“I should warn you,” Hugh said. “I’m rather good.”

“Not as good as me,” Ella piped up.

They drew lots. Ella went first with a three-letter word.

“Bum,”
Dan said. “That is so lame.”

“OK . . .” She added an
E
and an
R
.

“I think you’ll find there are two
M
s in bummer,” Hugh said.

“Yeah,
ignoranus
,” Dan piped up.

“Has it occurred to you,” I said to Hugh, “that there’s been a definite arse theme running through today?”

Before we sat down to eat, Hugh nipped out to buy some wine. He also got candy bars for the kids.

“Wow, Mum never lets us have chocolate,” Dan said.

“That is so not true. I just don’t let you have it every day.”

“Yeah, Dan,” Ella said. “You’re such a liar.”

“Well, at least I’m not an
ignoranus
.”

•   •   •

O
nce the kids were asleep, Hugh and I took our glasses and a second bottle of wine into the living room and snuggled up on the sofa.

“This is a lovely house,” Hugh said. “And you’ve managed to make it really warm and comfortable. It’s a proper home.”

“I’ve done my best. After everything the kids have been through, I needed to provide them with some kind of a sanctuary.”

“And you have. Right now they probably don’t appreciate what you’ve done for them, but one day they will and they’ll thank you.”

I laughed. “You reckon?”

“I know it.” He took a sip of wine. He didn’t say anything for a moment or two. There was clearly something on his mind. “So,” he said eventually. “Are we dating, then?”

“Yes. I think we are.”

“Good . . . how’s about you come to my place tomorrow and I’ll cook for you?”

“Oh, Hugh, I’d love to, but there’s nobody to mind the kids. I can’t keep asking Rosie. She’s been great, but I don’t want her to feel like I’m using her.”

“No, of course not. I get that.”

“Sorry,” I said, kissing him on the cheek. “You could always come here again.”

“I know, but I was thinking that we could do with some time alone with no risk of interruptions.”

“That would be nice,” I said.

He moved in to kiss me. “Stop it! The children might come down.” But his lips were already on my neck, the tops of my breasts. I heard myself letting out tiny moans of delight.

“I thought you wanted me to stop.”

“No . . . please don’t stop. . . .”

But he pulled away. “Maybe we should. Before we really get carried away. Listen, are you sure you can’t make tomorrow?”

“I don’t see how. Right now I can’t afford proper babysitters.”

He looked at me. “It’s OK. We’ll sort something out.”

“Sure.”

“Sarah, you sure there isn’t something else bothering you? You’ve slumped all of a sudden.”

He was right, I had. Just when I thought I’d shoved it to the back of my mind, the summer fair issue was haunting me again.

“I know I’m being a coward, but the thought of Tara and Charlotte reveling in my failure is just too much to bear.”

“In which case, I’d say you have only one option.”

“What’s that?”

“Blackmail.”

“Brilliant. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Come on—the playground bleeds gossip. You must have something on one of these women.”

“Hugh, stop it. I’m being serious.”

“So am I,” he said, grinning. “I bet one of them’s playing away.”

“Funnily enough, it just so happens that Tara is cheating on her husband. . . .”

“Aha!”

“What’s ‘Aha’ supposed to mean?”

“OK, here’s what you do. . . .” He was laughing now. “You go up to her, tell her straight out you couldn’t get Greg Myers and that if she dares to even think of making trouble, you’ll tell her old man that she’s cheating on him.”

“Yeah and maybe I should put a couple of bullets in her kneecaps as well, just to make sure she keeps her mouth shut.”

“Good idea. Where do you keep your sawed-off shotgun?”

“Idiot. Come on, you’ve had too much to drink. I’m calling you a cab.”

I was watching him climb into the cab when the thought occurred to me. I ran into the street and got him to wind down his window. “Tell you what, maybe there is a way I could come to your place tomorrow. Leave it with me. I’ll call and let you know.”

•   •   •

T
he next morning, just after nine, I was standing on Betty’s porch, ringing the bell.

“Hi Betty . . . Look, you’ll probably think this is a huge cheek, but I don’t suppose there’s any chance you could do me a massive favor?”

When I asked if she could babysit, she looked at me as if she’d just won the jackpot at bingo. At one point I thought she might hug me. “Me? You’d like me to look after the children?”

“If you wouldn’t mind?”

“Mind? I’d be delighted. Did I ever tell you that when I was younger, I was really good with kiddies? They seemed to really take to me. Heaven knows why.”

“Yes, I think you did mention it. But my kids can be little blighters. You might not be so delighted if they give you a hard time.”

“Oh, I’m sure they won’t. They’re lovely children—a real credit to you. . . . So where are you going?”

“Well . . . actually . . .”

Betty smiled. “I know. . . . You don’t need to say another word. You’ve got a young man, haven’t you?”

“Actually, I have.”

“Good for you. Don’t make the mistake I made and end up a lonely old widow. Now then, what time do you want me?”

“Seven if that’s OK, and I’ll leave you all dinner in the oven.”

She said that sounded perfect.

I told the children to promise not to give Betty a hard time. “She’s getting on and old people tend not to appreciate pranks and jokes.”

“Why?”

“Because they don’t always see the humor.”

“Why?”

“Because they’ve slowed down.”

“Why?”

“Because older brains don’t produce as many new cells as young ones.”